And I Can't Find My Way Home
by pteradactyl
Summary: Imaginary beginning of Season Ten. SPOILER ALERT - do not read if you haven't watched all of season nine. Contains the beginnings of Destiel. And I guess I need to say that this is fiction based on copyrighted material and I don't own the copyright to any of it, including the cover.


**And I can't find my way home**

**And I ain't done nothing wrong lord**

**still I can't find my way home**

Dean lay on the bed, a pleasing sound filling his ears. He was tired. So tired. He tried to think of a time he'd been this tired before. He couldn't. Not that he couldn't think of anytime he'd felt so tired. He couldn't think at all. He enjoyed the melodic, low-pitched sound that was his everything.

Then he made out words, a few words. He remembered a name. Crowley, who he now recognized had been speaking to him.

"Open your eyes, Dean. Open your eyes."

But he liked the dark. He knew, the way you know in dreams, that something very very bad would happen if he opened his eyes. Yet the more Crowley repeated his demand, the harder Dean found it to fight back. A curious, slightly evil thought occurred to him. And, once thought, it could not be unthought, _Why not?_he asked himself. _Why not open my eyes? It couldn't be any worse than being dead, could it?_A low quiet voice in the back of his head, familiar enough to recognize but too hard to name, whispered "Yes. It can be worse. Much worse. Don't do it, Dean. Sometimes, though it breaks my heart to tell you, it's better to be dead. Don't give in, Dean. Don't close your-"

Eyes. Dean's eyes popped wide open. Something was different, different from how his vision had always worked. Colors were brighter, and a second vision showed/told him what went on behind the colors. Everything was slightly askew. The more he focused, the more everything seemed to be moving around, as if a strong wind were blowing in his eyes.

"That's it," said a voice he now recognized as Crowley. "You're my pet now, darling, and we are going to have such fun, Dean. You wouldn't believe me if I told you. I can barely decide what we're going to do next. The possibilities are endless…"

Dean tried to answer but his voice came out as a growl.

"Don't strain yourself, love. You've been dead for," Crawley stopped and consulted his watch "almost 45 minutes. This is your second chance. Your chance to be reborn, into a new life. Take it slow, darling. You have all the time in the world."

Something primal jerked Dean's head and throat, the same voice he'd heard earlier, "No! Dean, listen to me. This is very important. Close your eyes and let yourself slip back to how you were, how you were before Crowley spoke to you."

Dean was so tired, it was very tempting to keep his eyes closed and give in to that voice. Familiar, but still unnamed. Something deep down in that voice resonated with him. However, Crowley was right here and now. Offering what Dean's body had craved since he'd killed Abaddon. Release.

"That's right, love. You can kill as often as you like. The mark is part of you, and now that you've made your first kill, with the first blade, the rest will follow," Crowely chuckled. "You can be my pet hitman, love. It gets wearing, sending bodies smashing into walls, catching them unaware with the sword in the back. I wouldn't mind a break. Would you like that, Dean? To kill whomever I want you to kill? To kill whomever _you_ want?"

Yes, it would be so good to give into that urge, to scratch that monstrous itch that had seemed to take charge since he slew Abaddon. Kill. Yes. Listen to the mark, nevermind Crowley. Crowley was beneath him now. He, Dean Winchester, was the only man in Heaven, Earth and Hell to possess the mark of Cain. The mark that dated almost back to the beginning of time. The mark and the first blade were created for killing. It now fell to him to do the work they demanded. The blade slipped into his lap, begging to be fulfilled.

Yet something was holding him back. He opened his eyes again and focused clearly for the first time since he'd died. A man in a raincoat was staring down at him. Staring with piercing blue eyes that held all the love the world had ever known. Castiel. Dean knew this man. He was an angel, an angel of the Lord, as he had first introduced himself, what seemed like lifetimes ago.

"What did you do to him?!" Castiel growled at Crowley, although it was perfectly obvious what he had done. "You stole a graceful death and replaced it with this, this…" his voice trailed off as he looked at Dean. "This abomination."

"And here I thought you'd be pleased at my saving your bestie's life," replied Crowley, with his usual sardonic smile.

Castiel ignored Crowley and stared at Dean's entirely black eyes. Suddenly he was at the other end of the room, his back against the wall, his feet dangling a meter or two above the floor.

"Call it off, Crowley. He can't possibly have so much power, not right after dying and being made," he stopped and spit the next words at Crowley "a demon. Let me go."

"By all means," Crowley replied, unceremoniously dropping Castiel in a pile on the floor. The angel stood with dignity and approached Dean, who was now sitting up in bed. Castiel placed two fingers on Dean's forehead, then shook his own head in frustration. He grabbed Dean's head and pulled it toward him, forcing Dean to open his mouth as he pressed his open lips to Dean's in a futile attempt to transfer the little bit of his grace that remained. He let Dean's head drop and sat on the bed, hands holding his own head.

He was paralyzed by indecision, telling himself this may well be the last and only time he could act on his feelings for Dean. But Dean was a demon; surely his love would be denied. _Screw propriety and modesty. And trepidation_. Once again, he put his hands on either side of Dean's head. He slowly moved Dean's face toward his own. He kissed his mouth gently, more gently than Dean had ever been kissed before. Castiel slowly explored his mouth with his tongue, as if he were committing every detail to memory.

Suddenly Castiel felt Dean's tongue probe his own, not the act of a lover but violent, cruel. Dean bit his tongue, at first playfully and then hard, drawing blood. His brown eyes turned to demon black again as he pushed Castiel away and spit in his face.

"What makes you think I _want_ you to save me, even if you could?" Dean growled. "You're almost out of grace, Cass. Stolen grace. You're going to die soon. I can feel it. Maybe if you'd had the balls to kiss me before I died," He was interrupted by the angel's coughing fit. Castiel's grace was running on fumes, and it was beginning to affect his heath. His cough became deep and rattled, and a trail of blood fell from the corner of his mouth to his chin. After a few minutes he pulled himself together. Tears ran down his cheeks, though it was impossible to tell if they were from coughing strenuously, or if they were genuine tears.

"I need to find more grace," Castiel told Crowley, who had been watching with rapt attention. Castiel suffered another small coughing fit, then continued. "But I'll be back," he said, turning to look at Dean and trying to suppress a cough. "I'm not giving up on you," he said, forcing Dean to make eye contact. Even with his terrible demon eyes, he was beautiful. "Ever." Castiel coughed one more time, then disappeared.

"Seems we might have the makings of a threesome," Crowley said, grinning at Dean. Dean did not grin back. His head was spinning, and it was all he could do to lie back in bed without fainting.

"We'll see about that," Dean said in a scratchy voice, as if it had been he who'd been coughing. The effort exhausted him entirely. He closed his eyes and fell into the state that for demons passes as sleep.


End file.
